


Neutrality Means Very Little

by MadamMassacre



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood and Gore, Drinking to Cope, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Heavy Drinking, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Light Sadism, M/M, Mentions of Holocaust, Other, Sad Spain, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-12-18 11:38:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11873577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamMassacre/pseuds/MadamMassacre
Summary: Sometimes it just takes a half-dead man laying on your porch to repair a relationship. To make them realize they deserve to be cared for. To get over past sins and to get over the guilt. Sometimes it just takes... a war.





	1. The Guest

It's not unusual for people to come to his house unannounced, everyone seems to do it. It actually seems to be a bit of a trend. France will do it on very rare occasions, Prussia will randomly appear out of thin air, Romano will just kind of materialize in his bed some nights, but fewer times as of late, and Portugal can easily be seen wandering his gardens on an early summer's morning. It didn't seem to matter if he was considered neutral nor did it matter that he was in fact 'isolating' himself from the rest of the world.

Well, technically anyway. But today all he really sees is the beating sun and the shade disappearing from the front side of his house. He doesn't mind the silence most of the time, but the silence can get deafening if he remains in it too long. Especially when his country, his people are so divided, sighing he resigns himself to leaning on the windowsill and watching the day begin.

That's when he notices the shadow appearing at the end of the road. The Spaniard cranes his neck out the window to get a better look. He can barely see it, but it's there. The vague outline of a car just at the far end of the drive, a large dust cloud in the machine's wake. Engine gunned and the tires spitting up the dust and rocks; it reminds him of some sort of beast coming to drag him to hell's gate. But as he watches the machine realizes something.

It's Prussia's car that he's looking at and for a moment or two he's actually excited to have company until he can hear something. A scraping noise, almost as if…as if something is being dragged behind the car. His excitement quickly disperses.

This is not a social visit, this is a business visit. The Spaniard lightly frowns, pulling himself back into the house from the window and tiredly makes his way to the door, only turning the knob and going out when he knows the car is closer. He stands what is left of the shadow in front of his house, watching the vehicle making its way up. The heat wouldn't bother him most days but today he doesn't feel like baring it now.

The car is exactly what he would expect of the Prussian. The underside is a shiny black that seems to shimmer in the light, the upper part the same if not a darker color, and in the middle, a thick white line with an unfinished decal painted on the door. Appearing very similar to that of the nation's own flag. The car stops in front of the door and enthusiastically Prussia leaps over the door and window, landing directly in front of the Spaniard. Posing like some kind of hero that the world has yet to know.

"Spain! My isolated friend," Prussia swings his arm over the nape of his neck and wraps it around so his arm is resting on the opposing shoulder. Spain doesn't mind it, Prussia is a friend, but he finds it to be rather warm for such a heated day. Nor does he find the physical contact all that friendly but rather threatening as of late.

"Prussia," is all he can really say to greet him. He feels the need to properly greet his old friend but he can't seem to bring himself to do that. He can smell the irony scent of blood, the smoke that's clinging to his skin, the burnt flesh and the decomposition on the Prussian from a mile away. He's been in a battle recently; it will take more than one bath to rid him of the scent. But it's a scent he's well used to by now.

The Germanic laughs, the obnoxious sound filling the quiet air of the later morning. The stench of alcohol under his breath. "Nothing else?"

Spain doesn't even dare look him in the eye. Prussia just grins again and finally removes his arm from behind the Spaniard's head. "I bring gifts!" It's far too joyous as the Prussian swings his arms up in the air and practically dances to the mangled thing that he knows is laying there. There's too much happiness in his eyes as if he doesn't realize what he's done, what he's doing. Spain stares in the opposite direction, Prussia reminds him of a dog he'd seen once, playing with a dead cat long after it had passed. He supposes the dog killed it in a futile attempt to play with it. It apparently thought the cat was still alive and continued on, swinging the corpse around and chasing it. Perhaps at the time, the dog didn't understand the concept of death.

He doesn't want to look at what's been dragged behind the back of the car. He's seen his fair share of war, its carnage, and destruction. He's seen it all before, he was an empire after all and it's how you become such an empire, but he doesn't want to see it now. He's different now, he doesn't… he's done with war…

The Prussian cuts the rope tied to his bumper, grabbing the thing's legs and swings the mangled body at the Spaniard's feet. Spain still doesn't want to look at it. He just wants to admire the garden; this isn't his war. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Prussia bow as he would to any great ruler or king. It's less of a formality and more of a mockery... "It is with my great pleasure, that I, the Awesome Prussia present the Kingdom of Spain with their lost colony! The Netherlands!" The Prussian is laughing his ass off again. He's laughing so hard he can't even breathe. Holding his stomach and keeling over with laughter. Spain convinces himself he's not shaking with some sort of fear and some sort of anger.

"Have fun España!" And with that, the Prussian jumps back into the car, narrowly avoiding the window and almost taking the mirror clean off, and drives off. Still cackling at something he finds so very humorous that Spain doesn't get. No goodbyes or stories to regale, just that, do your job and be done with it.

That was not the Prussia he knew, yes, the nation was vile and a bit of a pervert sometimes but he didn't drag people behind cars on a regular basis. Prussia was part of Nazi Germany now, and they were willing to do anything to get back the all power they had lost and then some. Even if it meant doing things like this, but to do that, they needed allies. Strong allies, not weak allies that were in the middle of recovering from a civil war. But despite that, his boss was still lending troops to the Germans… he hated politics. Therefore, apparently as a token of the Germanic's appreciation, he decided to give Spain a 'gift'.

Spain still didn't want to look down or even in the general direction of what was lying before him. He knew what to expect either way but he didn't want to see it. For a brief moment, the thought crossed his mind about leaving Netherlands there and going back inside. Like nothing had ever happened. But even he's not that cold and there was no way he could ever do something like that to anyone… anymore…

Internally wincing, he sucks in a breath and finally looks over and down at his former colony. Netherlands is lying on his stomach, head turned to the side, his normally spiky blond hair muddied and matted, and his eyes pinched shut. But he looks rather unharmed, despite the crimson tinted mud clinging to his every feature and clothing. He was probably dragged off the battlefield that way and no one bothered to clean him off. They didn't care, it wasn't their problem. He frowns at the very thought of it. To think, that he, was once like that, but aren't they all at some point?

Spain kneels down, brushing bits of dirt off the man's once tan jacket. Netherlands groans in response, cracking an eye open. The Spaniard grins, "Heh, I guess you were just knocked out, you know for a guy who just came out of an all-out war with someone you don't look too bad."

The former colony glares, or winces, one of the two. Spain smiles happily and moves to help the nation up from the dirt. Wrapping an arm under his chest, careful to avoid the scrapes on his shoulders and neck. Lars screams, actually screams, it's short and not very high pitched but a scream nonetheless. It takes the Spaniard a moment or two to actually register exactly why. He doesn't quite remember the dirt being so red earlier, or muddy. Actually, it had been quite dry earlier, and sandy. Spain fully turns Holland over.

He's riddled with bullet holes. He can't even really tell exactly where the bullet holes are, that kind of riddled. His chest probably took a couple and his abdomen looks worse, if the Spaniard had to be honest with himself it looks like they took him down to a shooting range and used him as the target. Netherlands coughs, blood spattering the untouched spots and smaller droplets onto Spain's pant leg. It continues on for a moment before under the nation's breath he mutters, "Not bad aye?"

Spain swallows, okay, okay, okay, and he ignores the bile that's threatening to make its way up his throat. He really doesn't like blood anymore, blood's messy, blood's part of living beings, blood's blood and there's a lot of it here. Netherlands draws a ragged, wet breath and Antonio wonders how exactly he missed that noise in the first place.

Lars winces and mumbles to himself in Dutch, periodically spitting out or coughing up said accumulated blood. It's even dripping out of his nose. Finally, Spain manages to fully collect himself before reaching for the Dutchman. Moving a bit closer and peeling Netherland's previously blue shirt from his wounds and skin. He barely even touches the fabric before the nation hisses through his teeth. Antonio tries to ignore it, continuing on, but even as he's looking under the tattered fabric he can't even see the injuries very well at all either.

He's not a doctor, nor a physician or even a medic. Spain himself has a very basic idea of battlefield medicine and even that's a bit outdated. It takes him a moment to retrieve any information about treating wounds. He needs to clean them; otherwise, the chance of them getting infected is higher. "Please, tell me you can stand?"

It takes about half a minute for the Dutchman to even understand the words that are coming out of his mouth. "Not well." It sounds more like a choke than actual words, but he can understand them.

"Linkernie geschoten." And we've slipped into two different languages, forget understanding.

"I don't speak Dutch, ehe…" The Dutchman grits his teeth and tries to get his arms underneath himself in a futile attempt to get up.

Spain jumps in to help, immediately taking the arm nearest to him and pulling Netherlands shakily to his feet. The nation grunts as soon as he's up, painfully glancing down at his chest and stomach. Whatever veins that had clotted before seem to have been opened again, he's bleeding more steadily now. Antonio gives a barely audible curse and ushers Lars to move a bit faster but the man is almost dead weight at this point, and he finds it almost impossible. But Netherlands still has his pride and despite everything is, with very little effort, pushing Spain off him. Idiota.

Even though he's not using his left leg no matter what and refuses to place all his trust in the Spaniard to basically drag him inside. In short, it was making the Spaniard's life that much more difficult. Opening the door was a bit of a trick and he didn't even bother closing it after. He barely manages to get Netherlands upstairs to the washroom without falling back down them. He's basically dragging the persona by the time they get up to the second floor.

Spain unhooks Netherland's arm and manages to get him into the empty tub. The Dutchman's head lolling back over the edge despite his boots touching the footer. Spain has officially concluded that the Dutch are just far too tall.

Netherlands continually switched from consciousness to unconsciousness now, once and awhile he'd throw himself forward and choke out an amount of blood Antonio didn't even think was in his body anymore. Then there was the fact that cleaning the wounds in the first place was almost completely fruitless. You'd clean them off and they'd only continue bleeding. He'd managed to remove the sand and the mud though which was at least a small accomplishment.

Clothing was getting to be an issue too; he couldn't really get Lars to take his jacket off, or his scarf, much less his shirt. They'd probably had a pretty one-sided conversation a couple of times about how if Netherlands wanted to keep his human body alive for much longer he'd have to actually be able to treat the wounds properly. He just kind of lay there, eyeing Spain or the wall, mumbling to himself in his strange, harsh language.

Eventually, he did manage to shrug off his jacket, hissing away Spain every time he even looked like he was going to help. The shirt he gave up on and just peeled it off the skin before cleaning around the wounds so Antonio could at least gauge where to bandage the persona. God this was a mess. Although only to reveal that the Dutchman's right side was bruised and mildly malformed, probably a couple broke ribs. As if it didn't hurt to breathe already…

Netherlands seemed almost completely out of it after he'd been bandaged. Staring at nothing particularly and now completely limp instead of tense like he had been before. There was a two-minute time frame of where Antonio actually debated about leaving him in the tub and just covering him up with a few blankets. The idea was rejected after a couple moments of consideration.

So, dragging the impossibly-too-tall Dutchman out of the tub and readjusting his position to better suite Spain, they went on. The Spaniard would continue to readjust this position throughout their little 'walk'. But he got the persona to one of the nicer guest rooms of his house. "Alright Netherlands," grunting, Spain eased him onto the bed in a fluid motion that he was quite proud of, "and there we go. You're just lucky that most of those bullet holes had exit wounds otherwise there'd be a lot more pain than what you're feeling now mi amigo."

"Don't call… me… that…"

"Ah… so we're back to English, finally, I was wondering if you'd ever get back to it."

Lars groans, lazily opening his eyes to glare at the Spaniard again. Spain perks up, "Which reminds me," turning around and padding off through the door, he disappears around the corner.

Netherland's just eyes the doorway for less than a moment before letting his head rest again. What'd he say? Which… what does that mean… sleep seemed like it would be a good idea at this point. Not translating, translating takes time. He can't even really tell exactly what's hurt and what's not hurt anymore. It just all hurts, every little movement just makes it worse. He doesn't even really think this body will make it through the night in this state even. So what's the point? What's the point of Spain saving him? It's not like he'd go away forever, it'll be such a pain to heal anyway.

Spain wanders back into the room, small vial in hand and ever-present grin, "This will help with the pain."

Lars rolls his head over to the side and flinches away, bringing on some more undesirable pain with it. He hisses a breath and weekly mutters, "No."

Antonio gives him a perplexed look, "I know you really hate me but I didn't think it was that bad."

Netherlands gives a slow blink, "Not what… I never… hated you…"

The persona relaxes into the far side of the bed, keeping himself a good distance from the Spaniard and the vial. "'ust… keep that away from me."

With half-lidded eyes the Dutchman watches Spain slowly glance at the vial, placing it on a table to the far side of the wall and slowly walk out. "Well, I guess I'll go then."

He doesn't close his eyes until the door is shut before he drifts off into the nothingness that knows him all too well.

…TO BE CONTINUED…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the result of my insomnia and I've found that I've basically fallen in love with NedSpa. But anyway… my brain apparently wanted a change of pace from, sad, sobbing and entirely depressing to a less depressing area. This is more, as-a-result-of-war and I guess a diving into one's mind thing.
> 
> If you've read any of my previous Hetalia fanfics you've probably noticed a trend here. I don't really know how it happens but I'll just call it a habit and gore is my thing. Plus I apparently just don't feel the need to post anything that doesn't have to do with gore…


	2. The Wait

He sleeps for three days. Three days, he didn't even move, he just laid there for three days healing. The first time Spain had checked on the persona he had feared Netherlands had died sometime in the night. He'd lost enough blood and was easily weak enough to die. The Spaniard had actually thought the man had died too. He had also thought that Netherlands was pale before, but now he lacked any pigment what so ever. His breathing was so shallow it could hardly be registered as breathing unless you listened hard enough to hear the raggedness of it. Skin ice cold to the touch, but his heart still beat and he was alive.

Spain he checked his bandages and placed the second blanket over the persona before leaving him alone for the majority of the day.

The second day he'd gotten back some of his less-paleness, his breathing didn't change but instead of freezing, Lars had switched to a burning fever. Infection more than likely but even then he didn't wake up. He didn't even wake up when the Spaniard was pouring Tequila over his wounds. And that hurts, that hurts like hell.

On the third day, it was more of just watching and waiting. If he woke up, he woke up, if he didn't then all Spain's done to keep him alive and keep him in a safe place would be for not. He'd learned very long ago that only time would reveal anything, this was no different.

…

You know that feeling you get, the falling feeling but it doesn't quite feel like falling exactly. Because then you realize you're dreaming of falling but you're not falling. Thump! No, he actually fell.

"Me estás tomando el pelo," Spain tiredly opens an eye, daylight instantly assaulting him. He'd fallen asleep then? Yawning, the Spaniard slowly removes himself from the dirty floor, boredly questioning the last time he actually cleaned this room. Standing up and back onto his feet tiredly brushing the dust and random bits of dirt off of his clothes, but that doesn't really matter considering his clothes were dirty anyway. He wonders how long he's been out for a moment. Judging by the amount of sunlight leaking in from the window it wasn't that late in the morning. He'd say around seven or so and he couldn't have fallen asleep until maybe one. So That left about six hours unaccounted for… a lot can happen in six hours…

Slowly he turns to the bed, hoping to see the Dutchman among the blankets but there's no body there. Only the blankets, mildly ruffled and lying as if someone had just disappeared from their spot in the bed. No sign of getting out of them or even moving them just… that. Just the blood stains remained as an angry reminder.

Spain gave a solemn look, frowning and not allowing himself to choke. So, Netherlands did end up dying anyway… probably end up reanimating in the middle of some warzone. Defenseless… Germany or Prussia would probably find him eventually and just take him for their keeping this time. Who knows what they'd do to him after that. Maybe throw him in one of those camps that he'd heard so much about.

He felt something warm run down his face, was he crying? Why was he crying!? Holland hated him. But he said… he said he never hated… so he never actually hated him he just. What if he was awake when it happened? Scared? He'd be scared too, even if he knew he would come back, he'd still be scared. Heck, he was scared when he died. Because even then… there's always the thought that lingers that maybe… just maybe this will be the last time you die? What if Netherlands had actually called out to him and he just lay there, fast asleep with not a care in the world!?

The realization fully hits him, he's really crying… Spain sniffs loudly, rubbing the loose tears out of his eyes with his sleeve. When did he get so dramatic? He can just hear Lovino muttering about how sensitive he is. Overreacting… swallowing and rubbing his eyes a bit more the Spaniard give a sidelong glance out the window, admiring the light coming through it and the gardens beyond. He supposed it was a beautiful day to die. Perhaps Netherlands was lucky and simply drifted off. Perhaps he's somewhere far from harm and battle. One can only hope.

Collecting his bearings, the Spaniard made his way downstairs humming an old song that he hasn't heard in centuries, one he'd long forgotten the words to. But he knew the rhythm, the notes that carried a soft and relaxing air to them that rocked children to sleep at night. Those same notes that could make a grown man fall to his knees and weep. Songs were fickle things like that.

Once he's on the ground floor he makes his way to the kitchen. It has the best view and he's getting kind of hungry, tomatoes for breakfast sounds good. Spain walks through the doorway rubbing an eye again, they're stinging which is kind of annoying but it's nothing he can't handle.

He almost jumps out of his skin when he hears an amused hum. "¡Hijo de puta!"

Antonio pins himself against the nearest wall and skillfully rams his head on the shelf on that same wall. His eyes darting around like ping pong balls for at least a minute before he spots the Dutchman leaning against the counter. Hair down and shaggy, he's retrieved his jacket and despite it still a bit mucked up he's wearing it. He also still hasn't taken off his scarf or gloves since he got here, stubborn as always.

"Crying over me?" Blunt, very blunt as always.

"No, I just woke up." That's both a lie and a truth. But he's going to go with it either way.

Spain rubs his head and unglues himself from the wall. "How did you even get down here? You couldn't even walk on your own!"

Netherlands just grunts, fiddling with his tattered scarf that is dappled with blood spatter and stained in random patches. The Spaniard sighs slumping and messaging his temples, his guest finally speaks again, "How long?"

"Qué?"

"How long did I sleep for?"

Spain pinches the bridge of his nose and wanders over to the counter. The Dutchman moves in the opposite direction, visibly disturbed by the distance between them. "About three days or so."

Lars makes a sound of confirmation and relaxes against the counter again. "So," the Spaniard removes his hand and crosses his arms almost mimicking Netherlands' pose. "How are your wounds?"

"Healing"

"How healed is healing?" He knows how to talk to the Dutchman, sometimes that is. They did live with one another for some time and it's almost impossible not to get to know someone in that amount of time. Even if after some time one did drift.

Lars doesn't respond, that's enough to tell Antonio that they're not nearly healed enough for him to be considered in good health. Then again, he probably won't be in very good health as long as this war is still going on.

Spain would inquire further but the breakfast tomatoes are calling him. Walking off to the ice box the Spaniard rummages through to find his lovely tomatoes. Giving the Dutchman a side glance he asks if the man is hungry. He responds with a blunt, no. So, Spain grabs himself a tomato and begins his morning.

Wondering to the table and gesturing for the Dutchman to sit as he pulls up a chair and stares out into the gardens again. Lars is, of course, reluctant but eventually decides to take the offer. Out of the corner of his eye, Spain watches Netherlands practically drag his left leg across the floor and finally sit at the table.

"What happened to your leg?"

"Don't remember."

"…can I take a look at it?"

"No"

"Por qué?"

"No comprendo." He mutters into his scarf.

"Cabrón"

"Entendí que idiota"

Spain snorts, he's such a pain. "May I take a look at your leg?"

Netherlands gives a silent sigh and nods. "There's nothing that you can do for it that I can't."

He rolls up his pant leg anyway, careful to avoid the knee joint. Spain can understand why now that he sees it. There's a bullet hole that leads directly into the joint of the knee. It's a bit older than the Dutchman's chest and abdominal wounds crusted around the edges, swollen, probably a fracture or two but surprisingly not infected. Here's the part that makes it cringe worthy though, there's not exit wound which means the bullet is somewhere in that joint.

Judging by the recently healed scars that are resting around the entry wound someone's already tried to get the bullet out and failed. So there's no way he can really help to retrieve it. The only thing that Lars can really hope for now is that when it heals it'll spit the bullet out, but if it doesn't, he's probably going to be stuck with a limp.

"They really did a number on you mi amigo, didn't they?"

"Don't call me that."

They lapse into a comfortable silence easy enough. Spain gazing out into his gardens and Netherlands looking far beyond the horizon. The Spaniard gives the man a sidelong glance every once and a while, taking in his features. It's been so long since he's been this close to his former colony. After the Dutchman declared his independence he never really saw the persona again. He'd heard about him but hadn't actually spoken to him much less seen him.

In hindsight he hasn't changed that much, he still remains forever young looking but his eyes seem to have changed since then. He'd imagine that this might have something to do with VOC and their lovely endeavors. You can't take a country without killing some people… massacring a poor village is a bit much though, even to his standards. Cutting some people off from certain medical supplies is also another…

Even now though, he still remembers the young nation he took in. The one that bit him if he got too close, which was honestly terrifying. It wasn't primal, there was no warning it was just if Spain got to within a certain range of the Dutchman he'd spring around and bite him. Although, little Belgium thought that was absolutely hilarious. Which may have been part of the reason why Netherlands did it but Belgium wasn't around that much so, there were gaps. It didn't matter how many times Spain hit him or punished him for it he would continue to do this strange habit.

Not too fondly though, the Spaniard remembered when he had gotten too close and wasn't paying attention to his hand. Apparently, Lars had a very sharp, if not oddly long canine on the left side. He dug it right into the top of his hand and pulled down. It ripped through the vein and apparently marred a tendon or two. Bled like crazy and hurt like hell. Dear god did it hurt. But, content with the damage done, the young Dutchman had simply walked off. The injuries that the persona had received afterward he admitted were overkill though.

Idly he wondered if Netherlands still had that tooth or perhaps it had been knocked out at some point. He gives the other another quick glance, gazing upon the ever visible scar upon the man's forehead. Spain still can't fathom where he'd got it from; he just can't seem to remember despite his attempts. He's heard stories, from Denmark and Belgium mainly, but they're made up and each one is completely different from the other. It still bugs Antonio though, that he can't remember where it may have manifested from. Netherlands basically grew up around him. The young persona didn't start out with that mark… so when? When did he acquire it?

A couple moments pass of this pondering before he realizes he's been staring at Lars for quite some time. The blond's noticed too, he's got that look on his face. That wide-eyed glare that wrinkles the skin around the scar and makes it even more prominent looking than it already is. Spain clears his throat, "Sorry, I got lost in thought there." He mutters looking away.

The Dutchman doesn't give a reaction that's evident before returning to look out into the morning light. Antonio looks down at his hands, absentmindedly staring at the faint mark on his right hand. Yes, there are many things that have changed about the Dutchman, he never used to wear a scarf or gloves, he used to bite Spain if too close, he now has a very prominent scar on his forehead and now he's just about to fall from his empire.

But there are things that haven't changed, he still has a smoking habit that would kill a human within a day, he still wears his hair impossibly spiked to the point it resembles a tulip bloom, he still has pissed off look to him or passive and tends not to smile no matter the circumstances. Even as a young nation he didn't seem to giggle nor smile, which was odd but it didn't bother Spain that much at the time.

Well, sometimes it did, but most times it didn't. He looks to Netherlands again, this time there's not nostalgia that follows through. Spain feels his eyes widen at the very slightest. The persona has lost all his color again, his skin almost looks waxy with a thin layer of sweat and he's trying to cover the evident wince. "Hey," the Dutchman doesn't look at him.

"Netherlands," Spain tries again, but there's still no response. His eyes seem glassy and unfocused, their light fading.

"Netherlands," he reaches out to touch the persona but again he's met with nothing.

"Lars," and finally rewarded with a response. The nation looks at him and suddenly the Dutchman looks very tired, feeble almost.

Spain is about to say something else before the persona's eyes roll back into his skull. His body goes limp and he falls to the floor like a ragdoll. Spain doesn't know how fast he moved or when but he realizes that he's on the floor to kneeling down over the persona and for some reason, he is deeply, deeply afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter every day until there are five chapters.


	3. The Home Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain never seems to end.

Spain stood on the battlefield, ax in hand staring down at an unmoving corpse missing its head. For some strange reason, he couldn't turn his gaze away from it. Had he just killed…? He began to drift and gazed at the head not far from its body; the longer he looked at it the longer it seemed to appear as if it was speaking to him. Its lips were moving but its eyes were dead and hollow. The head was whispering, though, he could barely hear it. The Spaniard moved closer, that's when he saw a flash.

Antonio turned to see a large man barreling at him with a force and speed he didn't think any human possessed. Sword drawn, the man let out a battle cry and Spain stood completely still. His empire was gone, his country basically demolished, his government in a tangled, shattered and broken web. What was the point anymore?

He saw the sword heading straight for his chest and he didn't move, he didn't want to move, he didn't need to move. The Spaniard closed his eyes and waited but the blow never came. Instead, he heard the blade go through someone else's flesh, someone else's body. The sickening crack of someone else's bones breaking and the stomach twisting snap of another's neck cracking. The next thing he knew something, no, someone landed on top of him.

Spain grunted and opened his eyes; on top of him was a young blonde, eyes pinched shut and blood running down his face. His eyes widened, "Holland?"

The persona opened his eyes, brow still pinched and teeth grit. The Spaniard in a mild panic pushed the man off his chest causing a mouthful of blood to spray out of the Dutchman's mouth. He spotted the sword in the nation's back if not moments after and turned back to the other's face. Eyes wide and mouth agape, Spain suddenly felt the tip of the sword piercing through Netherland's chest. For a moment he felt as if the same blade had gone through his own.

There was a gurgling noise as the Dutchman began to choke on his own blood. Splattering it onto the Spaniard, he looked into the blonde's eyes, mere slits now. There was nothing to say, there was nothing to be said he supposed, the persona's eyes rolled back into his skull and he went limp. Dead.

The man seemed to become heavier and Spain let the body fall onto him. Then the head… the head he had been staring at suddenly seemed closer. Its lips still moving despite its dead, waxy eyes and he could finally understand the words. "You killed me, you killed them, you even killed him…"

…

Spain's eyes slid open and he stared at the dark ceiling above him. He'd learned a long time ago how not to yell or be surprised at any nightmare he awoke from. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out… you're fine, it was only a dream.

He runs his hands through his hair and across his face. Ignoring the warm, wet discharge from his eyes. He feels like crap but that's nothing new at this point. Spain glares at the bottle of Tequila across the room, so apparently Mexico hadn't given him the good stuff. He sighs and sits up listening to some of his joints pop and give a satisfying crack.

Shifting around and standing he stretches his entire body out in the dim light. The night is still young; the crescent moon is still high in the sky. Spain rubs his arms at the chilly night air; it can get so cold at night without the sun. He cracks his fingers and walks down the hall. He might as well check on Netherlands while he's awake.

Half-lidding his eyes, Spain recalls this morning's fiasco. Once Netherlands had crashed into the floor he remembers the persona shaking, a gash opening up on the other nation's side. He didn't quite know what the Germans had done but apparently, it had affected Lars greatly. Thus he reverted back to his incoherent state. The Spaniard had to basically drag him up the stairs which probably wasn't the best experience for either of them.

Antonio opened the door, the darkness flooding it; his eyes took only moments to readjust to the lack of light. Carefully, he crept through and let the door silently fall shut. He walked to the bed without a sound. Spain removed one of the blankets from on top of the man's head softly placing a couple fingers behind his ear. He pulled back almost instantly.

He'd been expecting heat, a fever if anything or maybe a slight chill but not freezing. The Spaniard's eyes narrowed in the darkness as he tried to focus on the being before him. The Dutchman was shaking, broken out into a cold sweat, not even the three blankets were helping him at this point. "Cagar," he muttered.

The Spaniard touched the icy skin again, such a contrast to his warm hand. Crap he was cold. Taking the Dutchman's shoulder and very gently shaking it, "Netherlands," he whispered, Netherlands gave no response.

He shook a little harder, but to no avail. "C'mon… wake up."

Spain gave a shallow growl, "You're not giving up on me, not yet."

At that very moment, he decided that he was going to do something that he was inevitably going to regret. He crawled under the covers and over to the other side of the bed, placing no distance between him and the persona. The Spaniard felt the effects immediately. It was like lying next to an ice cube or sleeping in the snow. He pressed his chest to the other's back running a hand up and down a cold arm attempting to create friction and eventually, warmth.

Spain felt the persona shift and after a moment or two, Spain was no longer pressed against Netherland's back. He was against his chest. The Spaniard felt his breath hitch. He didn't feel comfortable like this… but as he carefully maneuvered the wounds he found himself being brought into an embrace. Pulled closer to the only source of warmth Netherland's body could find.

Antonio could feel the full brunt of the man's shivering now. His teeth grit and once and a while chattering. He didn't know what had brought this on either, sure, it was a bit chilly at night but this was beyond that. Spain could practically feel the cold leaking into him like it was being generated by the persona himself. But there was something else that drew his attention. His heartbeat, it was slow. Slower than it should be, absentmindedly he pressed his hand against Lars' chest.

He probably shouldn't have and was more than likely overstepping his boundaries but for some reason, he did. A nation's heart is his capital, the center of his being and his people. Because without their people, they wouldn't even exist, to begin with, despite their land. The Spaniard's hand curled at the slightest, is this why he was so cold or perhaps a result of it?

Spain brought himself a bit closer to the Dutchman, comparing his own heartbeat to Netherland's. It was so fast, his almost seemed like a hummingbird's in comparison. It was strange, Lars suddenly jerked and Spain pulled his hand back.

The persona threw his head back and hissed. That's when the Spaniard was suddenly very aware of the cool blood leaking onto his skin. Netherlands went rigid curling in on himself and basically swinging himself back into consciousness. Although, apparently he didn't register Spain's presence at all and simply continued to hiss in pain.

Something has happened in the land of Netherlands…

…

Spain awoke to the birds singing songs outside and the familiar sound of the wind whistling through the trees. Unlike the previous hours of the night, he found himself in his own bed. He still wasn't sure of what had occurred in Netherland's country but he was certain he'd find out eventually. The new gash had been a bit of an issue but it only bled for a short amount of time before it stopped. He returned to his own bed not too long after, worries still plaguing his head.

Jeez… now that he thought about it taking care of this guy was a lot more work than what he was cut out for. But none-the-less he found himself in the same room he had traveled to last night. He couldn't just abandon him either, so he'd at least try to help. Netherlands lay stretched out among the blankets, ragged breaths and small twitches. He'd have to go into town for bandages today… tapping his fingers on the door and only giving a very quick last gaze, he waltzed downstairs and into the kitchen for breakfast.

Ate in probably the shortest time he had in a while and got dressed. He needed more food anyway, so this was probably inevitable. Taming his curly locks further the Spaniard looked at his reflection. When was the last time he looked in the mirror? Spain blinked, was that even really him staring back?

His eyes seemed so dull, or perhaps it was the dark circles under them that made them appear so dull. His skin lacked the darker look it had on most days and why did he look so thin? He was still strong but he lacked the sort of fullness in his stance, his arms almost seemed gangly at his sides in his reflection. He looked at his hands; they still looked worn, calloused and scarred. They seemed to be the only thing that hadn't changed.

Perhaps… perhaps he hadn't changed at all, only his perspective.

…

The Spaniard walked out the door, tugging on his shirt and running his hands through his hair one last time to at least make himself look mildly decent. He was already quite aware of the dark circles under his eyes and the lack of color in his otherwise tan complexion. Maybe he was the only one who'd notice it.

The thunder of hooves brought him out of his thoughts. A large black blob making its way towards him. Spain wasn't alarmed at the slightest; actually, he was quite elated at the sight of it. He stood and waited as the black blur became the form of a very large bull. The animal bounding at him and suddenly stopping only a mere couple centimeters from the Spaniard's face.

Huffing and drooling, the thing looked almost malignant but not quite. Its big black eyes showed something of excitement, flicking its ears around for a moment the bull snorted and licked the persona's face. Spain burst out laughing at the rough tongue tickling his skin. "No, Ferdinand, no," he continued to laugh as he failed to push the animal off of him. Blindly swatting at the bull who continued to lick him with such happiness.

He pushed on the animal's forehead but all Ferdinand had to do was take one step forward to push Spain further into his slobbery hello. The Spaniard laughed harder before finally putting enough distance between him and the bull to stop the assault. He rubbed the animal's forehead, petting him a bit more, and shooing the flies that continued to bother his friend. Ferdinand was such a sweet, old thing, wouldn't dare hurt a fly much less charge at anyone despite his fierce-looking horns. Well, unless it meant helping Spain, then he was all but happy to push a man or two down to the ground.

The bull nuzzled the Spaniard's side and followed the persona to the barn outback. Hidden behind the garden and the cork trees stood aged but well kept looking barn with a pasture attached on one side. A single horse wandered around the pasture, only vaguely aware of the Spaniard's presence. Grazing on what little grass was left out in the yard. He'd have to expand the area at some point.

Opening the barn door he entered a more stable like area. Two horses stared at him; attentiveness heightened and hopes for a treat also heightened. The bull wandered in behind him, clopping around to the back and finding himself something to drink.

The two horses paid the old thing no mind as they came up to Spain to greet him. The pure white one, being Pierre and the dappled gray one being Rivera, both being Andalusian horses, how typical of him. But he loved them all the same. Skilled as they come and beautiful as any other. Pierre nibbled his shirt sleeve, snorted and nudged it, so pushy. "Ah, nuh uh uh," taking the carrot from his bag and carefully giving it to Rivera, the Spaniard smiled.

"Being like that, will get you nowhere," he practically sang, the horse only huffed.

Finally offering the Andalusian his long awaited prize, the animal took it and munched the whole thing down in record time. Spain ran his fingers through Rivera's main, removing bits of dirt, dried mud, and tangles from her mane. That's when he heard another set of hooves make their way into the stalls. An almost pure black horse nickered and stuck its head out of the stall looking expectantly at Spain. Removing a few more snarls he wondered to the animal, he held out the carrot for her to take patiently waiting for the horse to retrieve it. She only nickered, rolling his eyes he held it closer and the dark horse took the carrot.

This was Brio, a gift from Portugal a long time ago. A half Andalusian, half Arabian breed that his brother had found on one of his adventures, stubborn animal with a high temperament and a powerful bite as he had found out. But a graceful athlete, a dancer almost and as he'd found, a remarkable jumper as well. Letting the dark half-breed munch he took Pierre out of his stall and brushed the white creature down before putting on a bridle and a bit. Saddling the horse up with ease, Pierre only stood there patiently as Spain worked; he was such a mellow horse.

Running his fingers through the animal's mane one last time, Spain took the reins and lead the horse out, inevitably, Ferdinand following out the door. Closing the gate to the barn and silently saying farewell to Rivera and Brio. He walked Pierre to the end of the drive, petting his apparently touch deprived friend all the way. When he got to the end of the drive he mounted Pierre without any problems and took off to town, listening to Ferdinand's goodbye bays all the way until he could hear them no more.

…TO BE CONTINUED…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand is actually from a story. I do believe it's called 'The Story of Ferdinand'. I read it a long time ago when I was a kid and I figured it would fit perfectly into the story. Seriously, though, look it up, it's actually really cute and at the time I loved the artwork. Still kind of do after I looked it up.   
> But anyway, if you're not familiar with the Andalusian it's referred to as the 'pure Spanish horse' so of course, Spain would end up with a few. The half Andalusian, and half Arabian, I thought was a pretty mix and also had the stubbornness and pride that I decided would be an interesting character.


	4. Chapter 4

When he arrives at his home it's nearly past dusk. The sun only beginning to set in his lovely country. Pierre huffs and absentmindedly picks up his pace to get home faster. Spain doesn't mind in the slightest at this point, he's tired. Getting back seemed to be as good a priority as any at this point. He's packed his saddlebags full of supplies that should last him a while before he'll have to go back, hopefully. Depending on how Lars fairs these next few weeks. He'd picked up a number of medical supplies while he was there. Some stitches being one of them, bandages of course and a disinfectant that wouldn't burn as much as Tequila did. Now as long as Lars wasn't dead when he got home everything would be fine and dandy.

As he made his way up the drive he noticed there was something sitting up near the house. It took Spain a while to actually register what it was. It was a car of some make, for a moment he thought it might have been Prussia's if not for the fact that it was a different color and a bit older than the Germanic's own. The Spaniard dismounted Pierre and tied him up to the front of the house. Carefully taking the pistol he'd hidden away in his satchel and placing in on his belt. Noticing that the door wasn't fully closed…

Spain pushed it open and looked around, empty, he turned to the living room which was also uninhabited and finally to the kitchen. That's where he spotted a dark haired, young man sitting at the table near the window. Leaning on one arm and duly spinning a switchblade around in his ever so mildly tanned hands, probably bored to death by now. He gives a small smile; Romano never did have very much patience.

"Isn't it a bit rude to break into a friend's house while he is away?" The switchblade ceased its dance-like twirling as the fingers holding it froze.

There was a pause, "It isn't when the friend is an idioto wrapped in bastardo."

Spain's smile only intensified, his Roma was home. The Italian stood as Spain rushed onto him and gripped him into a crushing hug. A string of cuss words flew from the Romano's mouth as if anything else was expected. The Spaniard released after a moment or two once the cussing had stopped, admiring how Romano seemed to have grown if only a little since he'd last seen him. The Italian remained ever impassive and stared at nothing particular.

Antonio gave a half frown-grin trying to decipher the Italian's mood or intentions. He couldn't come up with anything, so, he did the next best thing. "What brings you here?"

"Belgium," Rather blunt.

"…Belgium…?"

Romano nodded, "She wanted to see him."

Spain kept a very blank face, eyes only widened at the very slightest of fractions. "They told you what they did with him?"

"No, potato bastards don't tell me anything, they only tell Veneziano the important things since he's dead brained enough to let anything the potato Nazis do slide." A flash of pure enragement showing through, Lovino definitely wasn't happy about this arrangement.

"How did you find out he was here then?"

"A tight-mouthed little shit, that just so happens, to be afraid of having his fingers snapped."

Making an 'o' with his mouth Spain turned and walked back out to Pierre. Romano following not too far behind, "How does Bel fit into this exactly then?"

Taking the saddle back off the horse Spain hauled it into the house ignoring the fact that Lovino didn't help him. "She's been begging me to help her find him ever since she heard ancient spud face bragging out how he put 'em in his place."

Setting the bag on the table he raised a brow, "And you complied," he found it rather curious seeing as how Roma was rarely the generous type.

The Italian blushed, the spark of anger and embarrassment lighting a sort of heat that flooded his cheeks and face. Spain let a barely visible smirk slip, Romano continued. "I figured I could do that much for her, I called in some favors and caught a ship heading to your country. Pulling her away from the spuds was another issue altogether."

Lovino didn't miss the mild amount of shock that went through Spain's eyes. "They're keeping them as prisoners?" It was a dumb question, of course, they were; what else would they be doing when they found a persona and had captured their land. Give them a gift basket and say welcome to the Germanic Familia, don't send Christmas cards till after Hallo-fucking-ween.

He just hoped that they were only keeping them as prisoners and nothing else, slaves or workers wouldn't be bad but there were worse things. Apparently, Romano had no further comment as he watched Spain drag another saddle bag into the house and set it on the counter. "They're only letting some go back to their countries at times just to keep them decently healthy. But there have been acceptations since they haven't been able to find a few and such."

Spain just stared at the table, "I think that's the longest I've ever heard you go without saying a single curse word."

Lovino mumbled to himself with half-lidded his eyes, "That can change very quickly bastardo."

Spain was well aware. Glancing up toward the stairs Spain duly debated about going in and checking on Netherlands and perhaps checking on Belgium in the process. He blinked as a question popped into his head, "How long have you two been here?"

Romano shrugged, "Maybe an hour and a half, I haven't' been counting."

The Spaniard hummed and went out to grab the last saddle bag. Petting Pierre on the nose affectionately, going back inside he saw that Romano had taken a seat at the island table and was running his finger over something on his knife. He set the bag on the table, "I'm going to go put up Pierre and give them some more water, help yourself to whatever's here if you're hungry."

The Italian nodded without looking at him and remained oddly still. Spain gave one last glance and quietly closed the door behind him.

…

It didn't take long for him to remove Pierre's saddle and halter, nor any time at all to brush him down and clean him up. Putting him back in with the others was no task at all and filling the horse's trough was only very mildly time consuming.

Heaving the barn door shut he made his way back up the house as the sun barely lingered on the horizon. Spain yawns, it's been a long day, lots of walking and oddly exhausting activities. He opens the front door with another yawn, looking into the kitchen he notices that Lovino has drifted off into sleep on the table, his knife still in hand; head nestled down on his arm. The trip here must have worn him out if he had to guess. Grabbing a blanket from the living room he slung it over the Italian's shoulders, he doesn't wake. Spain gives another smile, a tired one but a smile nonetheless. Out of pure habit, he looks out the window and is reminded that the seasons are beginning to change. The temperature would be dropping soon. With Autumn just around the corner and all, it could easily drop in temperature fairly soon.

His smile lessens as he again eyes the stairs, he should go check on them. There's no telling on how much Lars has healed or even if he is healing… The thought sends a small shiver down his spine but he shakes it.

Spain sluggishly walks up the steps, taking a very little care to keep his steps silent. As he reaches the top and trots down the hall he can see the faint glow of a light coming from the guest room. Slowly he creeps around the corner, peeking through the doorway just enough to see the two it contained within its walls.

Netherlands is sitting up in bed, leaning against the backboard and staring at the ceiling with dark eyes. His large amount of bloodied bandages visible even in the dim lighting, even with Belgium laid against his front, arms wrapped around his chest and her head hooked on his shoulder. Her short, brown hair shielding her face from anyone wishing to gaze upon her face… he didn't miss the light shaking of her shoulders. Nor did he miss Netherland's hand draped across her back in a weak and tentative attempt at some sort of comfort towards the younger.

It's a scene he's seen more than once, but then, like now, the scene still seems wrong somehow. Not in a sense of them but rather their ability and inability to be comforting and emotional. Belgium being more in tune with her emotions and then her brother being so distant to them. If not ignoring them completely at times or simply masking them perfectly. There were days when he did truly wonder if the older had emotions. Spain draws back to the siblings.

He wonders how long they've been like that. Suddenly Lars' hand twitches and his eyes focus, he stares at the ceiling for a moment and then to where Spain stands in the doorway, awkward and tired. The Dutchman gives what would appear to be a vicious glare, despite the exhaustion laced in it. The Spaniard freezes and walks further into the room. Rubbing the joints of his fingers and giving a slight frown. Netherlands only continues his glare. They remain like that for more than a minute until the Spaniard clears his throat and looks at the window.

"…I'm going to fix up a couple guest rooms…" Internally wincing, Spain makes his way out and down the hall further. He really did wish people would tell him when they were going to show up at his house.

…TO BE CONTINUED…


	5. Chapter 5

He's brutally awoken by a sharp pain running through his abdomen. Dragging him out of the sweet release of sleep, Netherlands allows himself a rather animalistic sounding hiss as he takes in his surroundings better. The bed sheets are tangled around him like chains, the slight sheen of sweat acting almost as an adhesive to his so called chains. It's become something almost comforting though, sweating, a living human body's reaction to heat. Lars finds it tends to remind him that, indeed, he is still alive. Lazily, he opens his eyes, he's still in the same place he's been the past four days. Spain's guestroom, he's beginning to think this is where he's going to rot away. Actually, once he really considers it, he already has rotted away here, maybe not fully but enough to make him feel rather feeble.

Netherlands stares a bit longer at the ceiling, gritting his teeth, he can't tell if another gash has opened or he's just feeling some of the aftermath of his recent endeavors. It's getting harder to tell… everything just hurts. He jerks as another throb runs through him. This one more violent than the last, Netherlands doesn't allow the whine creeping up his throat to escape. He moves a hand over an almost warped sheet, winding its way around his shoulders and midsection. Carefully, he manages to untangle himself from the blankets, biting his lip until it too is bloody.

The Dutchman breaths, in and out, ever so gently he manages to shakily move some of the wrapping around his chest to check. Yes, another gash has opened, although not on his abdomen this time but rather majorly just above his first couple of ribs. Enough of it lies just over two bullet holes to make it more painful than he'd like. He wishes they would heal already, they're getting rather cumbersome. Lars takes a slow breath, slowly and carefully removing himself from the bed. Left foot down onto the cool floor and steadily placing his right as well. He pushes off the bed without much of an issue, stifling a yelp as yet another jolt of pain runs through him. Maybe he shouldn't be doing this…

But he's already up, more or less; he takes another slow breath and tests his left leg. Allowing a bit more of his weight to be supported on it, his right is thankful for the shift but his left hasn't healed correctly yet. Just the minor shift in balance and he's starting to feel more than just an ache in the joint. It may be a while before he'll ever walk on it right again…

There's a low whistle, Netherlands perks up at the noise. Eyes widened, subconsciously, he tenses, making sure not to focus on the pain that follows. He can't hear any footsteps, nor can hear anyone moving outside much less in the house… only the wind. Only the wind sweeping across the land, surveying the world the only way it knows how. Accompanying storms, tornados and disasters or maybe even gently caressing tall grasses and pushing tree branches. Wind can be graceful and beautiful but it can be cold and deadly, it can be whatever it wants. Lars relaxes, wincing with the painful aches and throbs that follow. Perhaps he really shouldn't have gotten up.

But… as he twists his head around and gives a slow roll of his shoulders. He's been in bed for almost five days, even after this short amount of time he can feel his mortal strength failing him. Closing his eyes tiredly, he slowly turns around, easing his body to move forward. Lars takes only two carefully conducted steps before opening his olive eyes. He doesn't know where to go… he just needs to move.

Three steps, four steps, five and he's in the hall. It seems longer than it had when he'd initially come here, stretching far beyond his eye-sight and into a never ending darkness. Although he's come to the conclusion that it is only an illusion, he still finds it oddly discomforting. Then again, as he assessing himself, he finds that everything feels wrong at the moment. It's at this point in time that comes to the conclusion on where in the house he should go. The Dutchman takes another tentative step.

It's been days if not weeks since he's looked at himself. Even if he's certain he looks utterly miserable and just simply terrible. There's a part of him that wants to see the damage for itself. He's going to oblige, if not just this once.

So, he heads towards the bathroom, taking slow, uneven steps, it's progress, tiring and dreadfully slow, but progress nonetheless. At the moment he finds that he's just happy to be able to move. The bathroom hadn't been that far from the room he'd been placed in, he remembers. When he'd been taken there initially Lars remembers being half dragged into the room, bloody and broken. He supposes he still is rather bloody and only a little less broken. He'd gone into it a second time when he'd awoken, at the time he didn't care to look at his reflection or many of wounds he'd obtained. Mainly he'd just started to count the bullets in his chest and that was more than enough to make him feel a bit less whole.

Ten, eleven, and finds himself just outside the bathroom door. Netherlands stands there for a moment, just staring at the dark room before him. He can hear someone's breathing in the other room adjacent to it. Judging from the light growl-like snore that's emanating from it, he'd have to say it'd belong to either Spain or Romano. He glances down the direction he'd come from, but, as he'd learned from previous experience the master bedroom was on the other end of the hall. Near his own room if not two doors down. That and it would also be the direction Spain headed to whenever he left his room, although he could be heading down stairs as well, it was unlikely. Considering that the Spaniard's footsteps never seemed to pass his door.

Netherlands looked back to the dark room, leaning lightly on the door frame with one hand. He would suppose that it wasn't very reliable since he was pretty out of it through most of everything that had gone on in this house since his recent stay. But it was all he had at the moment and he was going to run with it either way.

He manages a slow breath and takes the twelfth step in. His eyes adjust quite quickly to the almost complete darkness as he takes another step in and shuts the door. Leaving only a small sliver of light to peak in through the opening. Just enough for him to find the switch. Which, for the life of him, can't remember where it could or even where it would be. Finally he finds the chain and gives a light tug. It turns on within a few moments, only giving a very slight flicker and giving off a quiet ticking noise as it warms. Slowly, the dim light fills the room and he nudges the door fully shut with an almost silent click.

There's a pause before he decides to look in the mirror, he's not horrified by his appearance, if anything he was expecting worse. But as he looks at it further he's already come to the conclusion that the light just above the mirror is making it worse than it actually is.

His hair is a lot shaggier than he expected though, there's mud clinging to one side, caked together and breaking off in bits. He's surprised that he hadn't noticed it before now. Even though Lars hasn't done anything to it, it also surprises him that his hair is still sticking up. Maybe not in his more dramatic fashion but more similar to that of Denmark's own if not slightly tamer. With dirtied blond locks sticking out to one side and managing to defy gravity still. Gently, he shakes his head, feeling bits of dried mud drop onto his shoulder and finally impact the unforgiving ground where they break apart further.

Netherlands manages to ignore his compulsion to clean the floor and turns his face to the right. There are some faint scrapes there, a memoir of his unpleasant trip over to Spain's. They weren't that deep since he'd managed to take the brunt of the scraping on his arms, upper chest and legs before managing to flip onto his back for the majority of the 'ride'. Besides, the drag marks were the least of his worries. Although, as he looks at the scrapes closer the striking realization that they hadn't fully healed hit him upside the head. It was a bit strange, but considering how badly his internals must have been ailing at the time, and in fact probably still are a bit screwy, Lars can see why his healing ability didn't mend the scrapes first.

Gently he touches the fading mark and starts to notice how much color he's actually lost. He used to be at least a very light tan, and even an ever so mild, barely noticeable pink to his face. It has all faded now; he looks almost as pale as the twisted, German fuck that threw him here. As Netherlands takes in the sickly color he also starts to notice the few colors his face still possess. He starts to lean on the sink almost subconsciously, taking in his appearance. The dark purple bags under his eyes that are almost to a grey, the redness that surrounds the eyelids, the very light, almost transparent pink to his scar and the barely noticeable grey patches that lie just under his skin. He looks so ill, as if all the life that he ever possessed had been sucked out and something else was thrown back in. Then, Lars, is unexplainably drawn to his eyes, they're so dull. They look like he's been crying for a thousand years and suddenly he stopped his tears and this is what remained. The light gone from them… lost… he could swear that they were not his.

He doesn't remain like that for very long; he can't anyhow, pulling his attention back to what his true intention for coming here was. Netherlands straightens up, gently pulling away at the bandages, making sure not to tangle or rip them. Nor does he pull too hard or fast at their seams; he's fairly certain very few of the bullet holes have been stitched shut resulting in more scabbing than he'd be comfortable with opening. He begins with his chest, hesitantly removing tape from the gauze and letting the strip undo itself.

When he manages to take the majority of the wrappings off he's not entirely sure he wants to take any more off. He takes a long breath, biting his tongue when his ribs react rather violently to it. He learned a long time ago how to keep his eyes from basically rolling back in his head to the pain, he's starting to utilize it more often… Netherlands starts to count again, six rounds to his chest. One grazed his upper shoulder, another had whizzed across his broken ribs and then there's the new cut etching its way across the spot where two rounds had gone through the upper right of his chest. The amount of bruising is almost astonishing, although there's a lot near his right; it spreads along and up his side until it slowly fades of into a lighter color and into a sickly yellow. Of course the bullet wounds are rather bruised themselves around the edges, and some that are more congested in one area are predictably more bruised than those standing alone. Looking at them almost makes the injuries hurt worse.

Tiredly he continues to stare, letting his mind wander and basically, completely zone out. Netherlands blatantly thinks about where he'd managed to take each bullet at. Shakily he drifts a finger over the wound near the center of his chest. He remembers quite clearly where that one came from. And, he knows that this is the exit wound, not the initial hit. The bullet went through his back, almost paralyzed him now that he thinks about it. Just a little further to the right and he wouldn't have had any defense against the German prick that shot him.

That was probably the last shot he took too. Once he'd been hit he more or less had fallen to the ground in defeat. Then it was more 'toying' he supposed, some of the soldiers were rather 'interested' in a nations healing factor. He frowns; their toying probably hindered that factor. The Dutchman looks at the light rings around each of his fingers on his hand. He supposes they healed back quite nicely now that he looks at them. At least the joints feel more freed than they'd previously been. Perhaps he should thank those soldiers the next time he saw them with a nice round to the cranium.

Netherlands flexes the fingers a couple times, testing them, he doesn't remember very much from the German camp now that he thinks about it. According to Belgium he probably hadn't been there for more than a few hours at most. So, it's apparently inevitable that he doesn't remember much. He supposes it's fine that he doesn't remember that much.

And again, he finds himself leaning against the sink, but as he eyes his reflection again he also finds that he can no longer bear it. He looks too broken to be the personification of Netherlands, too deformed, too weak, and too real. The Dutchmen lets a sigh escape his lips and allows his head to droop. Small bits of dirt fall from his hair to the sink, tarnishing the white surface with their unappealing color. Imperfect.

The longer he remains like that the more his chest aches and injuries burn. He finds that he can't bring himself to move despite it. So, Lars just breathes, in and out, the pain will fade and then he'll go back to his room. He'll fall asleep after a while of staring at the same ceiling he's been staring at for what seems like forever. He'll dream. He'll have hellish nightmares and he'll wake up to the real nightmare. The one he won't escape from. Can't escape from.

Netherlands gives another heavy sigh. That's when the light bulb burns out.

He's immersed in pure darkness. He can't see a thing, not even the sink he's leaning on, so he straightens and stares into the darkness. Waiting for his eyes to adjust enough to at least see something. But he's rewarded with nothing. And suddenly he's painstakingly aware of every noise around him, every flicker and shadow, and the soft whistling of the wind. These sounds they warp and twist, his mind is no longer in the residence anymore. These soft whistles are no longer what they truly are. They're the bullets whizzing past him, hitting the ground, hitting people, hitting him. Lars can nearly smell the sulfur and gunpowder drifting through the air. But, he's certain he can smell the rot.

He swallows, trying to focus on the sounds of Lovino's soft snores, but they're gone. The Dutchman breathes again because he's not going to have a panic attack. His heart beat isn't rising, he's not shaking, and he's not scared. The darkness hasn't scared him since he was a child but for some reason it does now. Although, perhaps it isn't the darkness itself, perhaps it's what lingers in it. He realizes he's waiting for something to move, something to emerge, he realizes he's been waiting for someone to burst through that door and gun him down. Such a childish superstition, but the door opens.

The hairs on the back of his spring up on end, his body goes all tense and rises. Netherlands feels his heart race and his mind go blank. Unintentionally, he takes a step back, another shock runs up his spine as the back of his foot hits something hard and he comes to the conclusion it's the wall. He can't see the figure that well nor can he hear them, not over his own heartbeat. It's only when he hears a loud bang that Netherlands fully rams his entire body against the wall.

The figure freezes, apparently stunned by the thud and finally, they find the light switch that Lars had missed.

There's a flicker or two before they turn on and now the figure and Netherlands are staring at one another. Romano stands there in the doorway, a blanket drawn tight around his features and over his head only allowing his face to peek through the fabric. His eyes are squinted to the change of light as are Lars's. But they soon widen when his brain catches up to what he's looking at. At first, he remains like that before his face loses some of its color. The Italian opens his mouth, preparing to say something but Lars already knows. He finds it rather annoying that something so little could disturb a couple scabs enough for this.

Netherlands pushes himself off the wall ignoring the small strips of red making their way down his chest. Romano regains his bearings and finally does speak, "I wasn't expecting that." His tone's low but more apologetic than mad.

"Neither was I."

Netherlands gives a very small jolt at the sound of a third voice. Spain emerges from behind Romano, tired looking and droopy. His eyes are blood shot, so he probably just woke up. Romano gives a very small, almost unnoticeable glare at the Spaniard beside him. Antonio only gives a big smile in response before turning his attention back to Netherlands. "You know, you really shouldn't be out of bed."

The Dutchman just stares; the Spaniard rolls his unusually bright eyes and sags against the doorframe. "That means you're going back to bed." He murmurs just loud enough for Lars to hear.

Netherlands gives a silent huff and takes a step forward… with his left. It goes out from under him and he stumbles to the ground with a painful grunt. Just barely landing on his hands and knees, he supposes he's grateful for that much. On the other hand, he's not grateful for the Spaniard that's basically all over him right now. The man's practically hugging him, dear god all he did was stupidly fall, he's fine. He's hurting, but he's fine. Lars begins to pull himself back up before Spain shoves him back onto his hands.

"Ow, I'm fine, I just fell!" Honestly, he doesn't mean to snap but this is ridiculous, he's not that fragile.

The Spaniard shifts and plucks a loose bandage from his front, wrapping it back around. "Dumbass, you're bleeding everywhere… I wouldn't call that fine," It's a mumble, but he's spent enough time around a certain Swede to understand just about any mumble.

That's when he's aware of the little blood droplets forming a puddle around him. Perhaps he is more fragile than he'd first thought. Netherlands waits for the Spaniard to finish his rather improve wrapping job before even starting to stand. But of course, Spain doesn't allow him to do it on his own. Antonio slinks an arm under him and around his newly rebound chest and eases him up with the gentlest of touches. Lars finds that he's in no position to really push him away at this point, if he does he'll fall right back down to the ground again. He looks up and sees Romano in the doorway, still standing in the exact same spot he had been when he scared Netherlands half to death.

But his eyes aren't the same as they had been, they've changed, they're filled with fear. Fear for him or of him? The Dutchman can't help but stare at Lovino in question, why would he be concerned, because he's certainly not scared of Netherlands himself. Perhaps he fears for Spain? But there's not much reason for him to be afraid for the other persona either. That he knows of, that is. Finally, the Italian looks away and leaves Netherlands to wonder as he disappears back into his room.

Spain grunts, "Geez, you're a lot heavier than the last time!" Lars doesn't even respond. He simply leans onto his right leg to give Spain less of a workload. "Why were you even out of bed? You're not healing fast enough for this kind of shit!"

They're almost halfway to his room before Netherlands speaks. "And why would you care exactly?"

There's a heavy pause as Spain stops hauling the injured Dutchman to his room. "How can I not?"

…TO BE CONTINUED…

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of my insomnia and I've found that I've basically fallen in love with NedSpa. But anyway… my brain apparently wanted a change of pace from, sad, sobbing and entirely depressing to a less depressing area. This is more, as-a-result-of-war and I guess a diving into one's mind thing.
> 
> If you've read any of my previous Hetalia fanfics you've probably noticed a trend here. I don't really know how it happens but I'll just call it a habit and gore is my thing. Plus I apparently just don't feel the need to post anything that doesn't have to do with gore…
> 
> ~MadamMassacre~EarlyMorningMassacre~


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